


ave atque vale

by ava_adore



Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: Ives didn't sign up for this!, M/M, Meaningless chatter, Non-Linear Narrative, The Long-Legged Nerd
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-01
Packaged: 2021-03-13 13:53:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29154621
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ava_adore/pseuds/ava_adore
Summary: And forever, my brother, hail and farewell - Catullus 101"I used to know this guy called Neil who was daft as a brush."Or:how Ives learned to stop worrying and love the nerd.
Relationships: Ives & Neil (Tenet), Neil/The Protagonist (Tenet)
Comments: 26
Kudos: 35





	1. salut les amoureux

The Boss, at the very least, has the good grace to sound skeptical.

“You want to poison our man,” he deadpans, leaning back into his chair at the outdoor table at _Café de Flore_ , and Neil unhooks his mouth from the straw of his pastel-yellow drink – _Pastis 51, s'il vous plaît_ , he had said in an exaggerated French lilt, going so far as exchanging a world-weary glance with the waiter, sighing _‘ah, les américains’_ when the Boss had asked for a Diet Coke – so he can properly arrange his face into his very best look of fake-but-actually-real petulance.

“ _Poison_ ,” he drawls, “might be too strong of a term. Very shakespearean – _no_ , it’s a perfectly safe drug,” he waves and loops the hand holding the glass through the air, “lights go up, Giselle takes her bow, and he wakes up feeling, you know, actually quite refreshed.”

The Boss, as it almost always is the case when Neil speaks (and inexplicably, in Ives’ humble opinion), seems to be biting on his bottom lip to contain a grin. “I don’t know if that last part is true –

“It is, I’ve tested it on Mahir–

“Mahir’s insane,” Ives feels compelled to intervene, “he doesn’t count.”

“ _Well_ –

“– _but_ okay,” the Boss says.

“Okay?” Ives echoes. As far as Neil’s schemes go, this is hardly the weirdest idea Ives has been exposed to in the year and a half working on-and-off with the guy, but it’s also not the strongest one – poisoning (whatever Neil claims) the french minister of the armed force in plain sight during the opening night at Opéra Garnier could be a bit of a gamble, even for them. Especially on such a short notice. “Really?”

The Boss mulls it over for a moment. “We _do_ have a small window. This could be the fastest way to get what we need.”

“No one will fault him for falling asleep during the ballet,” Neil picks up again, raising both eyebrows. “Meanwhile, I’ll be in the seat next to him, having some me-time with his phone. If the intel’s there, I’ll find it. It’s a solid plan.”

“Solid, okay.” Ives glares from behind his beer. “What if something goes wrong?”

Neil scoffs. “It won’t.”

“But if it does?”

“If it does,” Neil relents through a long exhale, “then, Ives, _you_ will be there to spring me out of trouble, as always.”

“Oh, will I.”

“Well, yes.” Neil shrugs. “I’m the brains, you’re the brawn.”

“Mh.” Ives nods. For a second there, he seems pensive. “I’ve never thought of us that way.”

“Course not. That’s why I’m the brains.”

“And if I ever hear that again I’ll shoot you.”

Neil, never one to take death threats personally (to Ives' great annoyance), chuckles. He gives Ives a look under his eyelashes. “What, you want to swap roles?”

“You know what,” Ives sneers, “I think I’m good. Besides, I would never want to get in the way between you and _the arts_. I hope you have fun tonight.”

“Is that so?"

“Alright,” The Boss breezes in. They _are_ running on a tight schedule. “Plan’s a go, but Neil – this is serious. I don’t want to tangle with the French,” and at that, both Neil and Ives just _have_ to snort, “not on any level. You can’t –

“Make noise,” Neil finishes for him, now sounding almost – Ives peeks up from his pint again – _soft_. “I know.”

The Boss looks away, that half-smile back in place, eyes crinkling at the corners. Ives knocks down the last of his beer and stands up. “I’m going to scout the damn place.”

Neil grins. “Bring us something from the gift shop?” he asks and Ives, turning on his heels to begin the traipse towards the _Rive Droite_ alongside the usual horde of clueless tourists, flips him the bird.

“See you there tonight!” Neil calls after him.

“Let's hope not, genius!” Ives calls back and Neil turns back in his chair, still grinning.

“Well, boss.”

“Yeah?”

Their glances linger for a moment. Paris is beautiful in September. Neil opens his mouth, then closes it, then settles on holding up his drink in a little toast.

“Cheers.”


	2. one look I but gave

He’s meeting Neil under the Rajabai Clock Tower, a rendezvous point they had chosen together many years ago from his perspective. They were in the early stages of sketching the preliminary outline for this operation, back when this operation used to be _the longest inversion ever_ _attempted_ and nothing else; before everything, before Neil knew what was expected of him in Kiev and later in Mumbai, before he knew for whom he was supposed to leave the little trail of breadcrumbs to follow, and how, and why.

Neil thought he was being funny. " _I_ _t's modeled after the Big Ben. This way you won’t get lost.”_

_“Bullshit, Neil. You’re so much more english than me, you’re ridiculous.”_

_“Listen, I know all about your secret stash of earl grey.”_

_“There is no secret stash.”_

_“Okay, but you wish there was.”_

_“Shut up. And get to planning.”_

Many things had changed since then, most of them irreparably but, on the 16th, the clock tower is (or was) still standing. 

Neil comes straight from the airport. He piles in the passenger seat of the car without a word, a controlled collapse more than anything else and, before he starts the engine, Ives looks across at him – the lines on the shirt, the lines on the face, the red around the eyes – thinking that in all likelihood the flight attendants hadn't had to hustle very hard to sell those tiny bottles of duty-free vodka.

He eases the car out into the traffic. Out of the corner of his eye, he notices him struggling to loosen his tie. Mumbai is sweltering: there is no reason for Neil to be trembling – he’s shaking because he’s shaking, which is not very reassuring, but Ives was never very good at striking up a conversation; that was always Neil’s specialty. Rationally, he knows there are many things he could say that Neil would probably appreciate (he's not very picky) – he could ask him how was the trip, or if he’s tired, or hungry, or whatever, but he also knows it would be just saying words. However much he wants to offer a distraction, or consolation, Ives simply lacks that kind of ability, so they make the short drive to the safehouse in silence, and they’re still quiet while trudging up the stairs and while he opens the door of the flat; there’s only the jingling of the keys and the sound of the keyhole’s tumblers falling in place.

He walks in and flicks the light switch on his way to the window, feeling like the world’s most deranged real estate agent. He moves the curtains aside just enough to check that the alley below is still reasonably clear. The bright yellow light can’t do much for this half kitchen and half living room entrance – it’s dingy at best, with the chipped, mismatched furniture and the glossy layer of plastic covering the table. Neil drops his bag on the floor and produces a cigarette seemingly out of nowhere, like a magic trick. He lights it quickly, with a decisive gesture that doesn’t match his jittery appearance.

“Nice place we’ve got here,” he says, a little hoarse. He takes a long drag and looks around. “Quaint. We could, like, get a dog or something.”

Ives arches an eyebrow. He’s relieved, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to dignify that with an answer. He starts emptying his pockets on the table.

“Keys,” he says abruptly. “Car keys. Phone. My number’s already in there.”

Neil frowns. “You’re leaving?”

“I’m on standby with my team,” Ives reminds him with a frown of his own. It comes out sounding almost like a question and Neil drags a hand over his eyes, then through his hair.

“Right,” he huffs. “Right. Sorry.” He sits down on the rickety couch and tilts his head against the back pillow to stare at the ceiling, at the ribbons of smoke coiling up towards it. “They pulled out his teeth. Did you know that?”

Ives sighs. He shakes his head. He thinks, and thinks, but for the life of him he can’t come up with something that could help. Knowing what he knows doesn’t do him any good now, knowing how this will play out, how it will end – it’s the least useful piece of intel he’s ever come across, certainly the one he hates the most. He tries to think of what Neil would do if the roles were reversed.

He reaches out a hand and briefly squeezes Neil’s shoulder.

“Neil, you can do this,” he says quietly. It feels like pouring poison down his ear, no matter how sincere he’s trying to be; and it only worsens when Neil looks at him – eyes wide and a little manic, hair sticking in every direction – and nods his head feebly.

“Yeah,” he murmurs. “Yeah, okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In my head this chapter was dubbed as: "Ives: wordsmith"


	3. backwards, darling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Silliness ahoy! But Wheeler is a cool girl

When the phone buzzes, three a.m. UTC+0, he’s awake in less than a second, taking the call halfway through the second ring.

“I have a job for you.” The Boss’ voice is neutral and concise on the other side of the secure line. “Specs to follow.”

Five minutes later, what he gets is an encrypted document hiding a string of coordinates he knows very well (they fought tooth and nail to take control of that damn turnstile not too long ago) and a carefully balanced mix of infuriatingly sparse and downright useless information about some guy that Wheeler’s team has smuggled out of Germany three nights ago. Not that Ives needs the story of a recruit’s life to indelibly hammer into them how to handle all kinds of inverted weapons, and he absolutely values subordination but still, _specs_ – sometimes, especially at three in the morning, he can’t shake the feeling that on some level the Boss enjoys trolling them all.

It’s sunrise when he gets there, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Cardiff that is grimy and bleak as anything, but there’s Wheeler waiting by the barbed-wire fence, ramrod straight and fists on her hips.

“Since when do we need two people to put the fear of god into a recruit?” he says, slamming the car door shut, and she turns, briskly, to lead the way.

“What," she snorts, "you had something better to do?”

“Maybe,” Ives retorts, maybe a beat too late – Wheeler makes a sound with her throat that makes him wonder why he even bothered.

“Have you been briefed?” she asks as he falls in step next to her, the _thud_ _thud_ of their boots on the gravel rising and falling in synch. 

“Sort of. What can you tell me?”

“Well,” Wheeler says absently, turning the corner to the back of the building, “I can tell you you’re going to hate this.”

 _This,_ in fact _,_ is a long, lanky thing leaning against a muddy Range Rover – ankles crossed, smoking cigarette hanging idly from between fingers – that Ives immediately looks up and down. He imagines there must have been something telling in his stare because the guy goes from wary to smirking and says –

“It only looks like I’m smoking.”

– in an insane British accent that curls around every vowel and that greatly contributes to throw Ives off. 

“Do I look like your father?” he snaps, unthinking – regretting it immediately when the guy pauses to consider it. 

“No,” he muses. “Actually, not at all. He was bald.” He motions vaguely with the hand holding the cigarette. “Picture me, but without a single hair follicle in sight.”

“ _Neil_.” Wheeler steps in, the barest whiff of a _watch it_ in her tone. “This is Ives. He’s one of us,” she says curtly and Ives pins _Neil_ down with the narrow-eyed stare he has perfected for such occasions, namely when he’s forced to deal with smartasses who obviously have never caught a glimpse of something remotely resembling the inside of a military base. 

“Have you ever even held a gun?” he asks without preamble, much less polite than Wheeler in breaking the ice but, somehow, the smirk underneath the mop of blonde hair only grows sharper.

“You people,” Neil says, long and slow, “whoever you are, are not great at small talk.”

Ives just blinks at him. “I suggest you try.”

“Wheeler here told me the exact same thing.” Neil sounds abundantly amused now. “Sure, she was the only one who would talk back to me, but every time she’d look up as if to beg the lord to grant her the strength. Am I right, Wheeler?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“See?” Neil raises both eyebrows. There's the leftover of a bruise just above his cheekbone. “Longest trip of my life.”

“Oh, you mean of _my_ life.”

Ives inhales slowly. He’s pretty sure he has heard and seen enough. “Put that out now.”

“You said–

“I trust you know what happens," Ives says, real irritation starting to creep into the edges of his voice, "if you mix that shit with oxygen?” 

“Well, I have a master’s in physics–

“Interesting,” Ives interrupts. “You got that before or after narrowly escaping arrest, or worse, at the Max Planck Institute three days ago?”

“Before,” Neil replies blandly. He throws the cigarette and grinds on it with his ratty sneakers. “Though I would have loved it if I could have gotten some extra credits out of that tiny bit of academic bang and burn.”

Ives doesn’t respond. He turns to look at Wheeler and she rolls her eyes. “He wasn’t really asking,” she explains with measured patience, grinding her teeth only a little while Neil shrugs – all the way up to his mouth and cheeks, the most involved (and aggravating) shrug Ives has ever seen.

“Let’s get a move,” Ives says, nodding his head to the descending ramp of rusted stairs.

Neil saunters behind them after an infinitesimal moment of hesitation. “So, do you guys go way back?” he asks, so casual that Ives cannot tell if he’s doing it out of some perverse desire to piss them off or if he’s _like that_ for real; truth be told, he can’t even settle on which outlook would be the shittiest. When he gets no answer, Neil changes strategy. “I hope you didn’t drag me for nine hundred miles to just shoot me in a basement,” he drawls; at the bottom of the staircase there’s a heavy metal door – when Ives makes to type the code into the keypad, the little screen flashes and warns him beforehand: _attempt 3 of 3_. He looks at Neil and feels Wheeler doing the same, but Neil just shrugs again. “What? It would be a huge waste of time and resources,” he continues, while Ives shakes his head and punches the right code in. “Wouldn’t it?”

The door clicks open and red light seeps through. Neil sighs with an air of heavy defeat. “Fine. I’m shutting up.”

Ives stares at him evenly. “You catch on quick.”

“I really do have a master’s deg–

“Shut the fuck up.”

“Okay.”

*

On the red side on the turnstile, they watch Neil watching himself on the other side of the proving window.

“ _Fuck me_ ,” he all but wheezes. Ives didn’t believe scientific progress could render anybody breathless but if this job has taught him one thing, it’s that he has to be elastic with what he believes. “This is _nuts-_

Neil stretches a tentative hand but stops short of touching the glass. “ _Wheeler_ ,” he suddenly mutters under his breath. “It shouldn’t be possible,” he swallows thickly, “to tamper with thermodynamics like this. Not on a macroscopic level. Not for another hundred years at least.” He sounds close to crying, but Ives and Wheeler exchange a glance and magnanimously choose not to comment on that; if push comes to shove, Ives figures, he can always volunteer to punch him in the goddamn face to sober him up.

The proving window says so, so they pass through the turnstile.

When they exit the airlock on the other side, the sun is bit by bit plunging back towards the horizon. Neil stands between them, keeping quiet behind the oxygen mask while the sky in the east turns from pink to a dusty grey blue.

“I can’t believe this is real,” he croaks, turning to Ives with a raw, open look on his face. There _are_ tears in his eyes now – but there’s also a burning, almost delirious awe in them that makes Ives reconsider his plans. He reasons that, if the Boss has sent him here, it must mean he will have at least one other opportunity to put his fists through that pretty face.


	4. jardin des tuileries

Neil’s presentation of the plan had been hand-wavy (fucking literally) at best, given that he was busy chugging down French liquor and coaxing smiles out of the Boss (fucking unbelievable) but – Ives begrudgingly admits – the execution is flawless. They have their hands on the intel that will bring (or has brought) down the French minister between the first and second act of the ballet and then, at barely eleven p.m., from his hide-away across the street he spots Neil weaving through the sequinned multi-coloured crowd on the steps outside the theatre – straightening his bowtie with a smug look on his face.

“Good game, people,” The Boss says over the staticky hum of the radio. “See you at the rally point in two days.”

“You’re already leaving?” Neil pouts – but the Boss has already gone dark. “Wow. I’m kind of offended.”

Ives shakes his head. If anything, that means that after weeks spent in inversion, he will have at least one normal gloriously free morning all by himself and that is actually great – he rips off his earpiece, lest he gives Neil the chance to utter a _let’s be alone together_.

The sun is barely up, and the city is still quiet – there are blessedly few people around when he crosses rue de Rivoli and enters the Tuileries Garden, turning right to start the first lap and it feels amazing – he hasn’t gone for a run, much less on a morning one, in what feels like an eternity.

_“Ives!”_

Ives curses under his breath. He has had nightmares like this, but usually he wakes up before Neil starts ruining his peace of mind. Nevertheless, he spares him a glance – if only to make him feel the full extent of his indignation; Neil is jogging up to him, hair trapped under a black cap that he’s wearing backwards like the absurd person he is, and Ives instantly quickens his pace to put some distance between them.

“I’m going for a run,” he calls over his shoulder. “Whatever it is, it will have to wait.”

“Do you have to be so dramatic about it?” Neil sighs. “I can see what you’re doing. I’m coming with you.”

Ives stops running abruptly and Neil almost knocks into him. “Are you drunk?” he snarls, his voice gruffer than usual, and Neil makes a face.

“ _Pfft_. I wish.”

“Then you lost a bet or something?”

“Thank you for the vote of confidence but no,” Neil says, only a little defensive. “I’m willingly deciding to take on some sort of physical activity, is that so preposterous?”

“Very much so.”

“I figured I have to do something, otherwise I’m going to need a hip replacement very soon.”

“What a fascinating premise,” Ives grunts and Neil just shrugs, further cementing Ives’s suspicion that it has been some time since Neil has last attempted to maintain the illusion of ever listening to anything he says.

“Does our insurance even cover for those?” he asks breezily, case in point, and Ives almost – _almost_ – smiles, because sometimes Neil is just too ridiculous for his own good.

“Insurance,” he repeats, impassive. “You should take that up to the Boss,” he offers – and that is when the most unexpected thing happens, something that, for all Neil’s mad scientist posturing, had never occurred before (or else Neil wouldn’t be alive to tell it): he delivers a look that makes Ives feel like the slowest dimwit on God’s green earth.

“Get with the program, Ives,” he says in _that_ tone of half-swallowed condescension. “I’m trying to bed the man, goddammit– 

“Jesus fucking Christ!"

“ –if that wasn’t clear enough–

“It’s crystalline _now–_

“ –I can’t talk to him about hip replacements, don’t you think?”

Neil crosses his arms over his chest, looking utterly satisfied with his argument. Ives pauses. He doesn’t know what he was expecting – he summons all his energies into trying to keep a straight face.

“So the pleasure’s all mine?” he asks after a moment.

Neil smiles. “All yours.” He claps a hand on Ives' back. “Come on.”

Ives shakes his head and trails after Neil, quietly acquiescing to have his morning run ruined – nothing was sacred anymore anyway, not even the idea of the Boss as this otherworldly entity. “For future references,” he says while they jog side by side, “next time you see me heading out, feel free to ignore me. I won’t be offended.”

“As if,” Neil says, and Ives sends him a sidelong glance, only catching the tail end of a shit-eating grin. He rolls his eyes.

“Breakfast?” Neil huffs as they pass by a kiosk that gives off an admittedly delicious scent of warm croissants and freshly made coffee.

“Sure,” Ives replies. “In about six miles.”

“Are you serious right now?”

“As a heart attack.”

Neil laughs, quick and easy. “Appropriate.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Precise enough?"  
> aka the only time Neil ever doubted Ives' mental faculties


	5. time of troubles

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Neil is bad at pick-up lines, Ives wants to kill something and the Boss tries to keep it together.

These are the longest moments of Ives’ life.

_“So.”_

_“Oh, God.”_

_“I think the Boss is avoiding me.”_

_“What is this, middle school?”_

_“But, like,_ in a good way! _Like he can’t bear to be in the same room as me or else he’d jump my bones.”_

He scrubs his hands over his face, weary beyond measure.

He had seen corpses hit by a grenade who’d looked way livelier, so he averts his eyes, focusing on the fluorescent-green peaks and valleys of the heart monitor instead. The medic team of the _Magne_ had been very clear; a minute later and there would have been no point in trying to stabilize the radiation. They were trying to be reassuring, he supposes, but Ives could not bring himself to find comfort in that knowledge; apparently neither could the Boss because for all his single-minded certitude ( _“Fucking_ move _, Ives! He doesn’t die here!”_ ) he had commandeered the plastic chair showing no intention of leaving it, not even when Wheeler had come knocking, flatly asking are we debriefing _or what_. He’s planted there, folded on himself like a child in time-out, with his elbows perched on top of the covers, steepling his head in his hands, fingertips pulling at the sides of bloodshot eyes.

The medics had also said that sleep would be good for Neil but that, too, is unnerving. Ives takes up pacing in circles. The silence is unbearable – he keeps hearing, in the lull between heartbeats, the uneven gasping of when the sonofabitch had been bleeding out, and worse, in his arms. Of course terrible things happen: you can’t have been special ops and not know that, and you can’t work with Tenet and not be ready for anything – but Neil, with his stupid top notch spatial awareness, pushing him out of the path of an inverted bullet was not something he had prepared himself for.

 _Get your head out of your ass,_ Ives had told him, _and just do your fucking job._ Neil, of course, had taken it as literally as possible.

“Is this normal?” he snaps, not knowing whether he’s referring to Neil’s terrifying stillness, to a shell-shocked Boss sitting for hours at an agent’s bedside, to himself wanting so bad to hear the motherfucker’s voice it was starting to hurt.

The Boss’ eyes flick over to him. “I’ve only done this once before.” There’s no discernible trace of emotion in his voice. “He’s going to be okay though. You’ll see.”

“Yes,” Ives grumbles. “So you’ve said.”

The Boss glances up at him, as if weighing something. “Ives.” He sighs. “I’m sorry.”

Ives does not know what the fuck the Boss is apologizing for. Doesn’t know what good it will do to just ask point blank – he’s not in the mood for sibylline half-answers or for lies by omission, let alone for whatever the hell is actually locked behind the Boss’ teeth – so he keeps his mouth shut.

A soft sound escapes Neil. Ives’ heart scrambles to his throat – the Boss straightens on the chair and Ives flings himself to the other side of the bed before he can consciously think through what he’s doing, so fast that he skids on the scuffed floor of the cabin.

“Neil.” He snatches Neil’s hand and squeezes. “Neil? Can you hear me?”

Neil mutters something virtually unintelligible. He stirs, angling his head towards Ives’s voice, a microscopic movement. “Neil?” Ives tries again, louder. “You with me?”

Neil’s bruised eyelids flutter and finally his eyes open to tiny slits. “Ives--?”

Neil’s voice is a faded, unformed thing but Ives still takes a breath, a deep breath, tightening the grip around the icy hand as if trying to keep himself from flying off the surface of the planet. The relief that shoots through him leaves him so distracted that he forgets to reply. There’s an ache flaring in his chest and his mouth is too dry – eventually he manages a tight-lipped nod and Neil frowns in confusion. He swallows laboriously. “What’s wrong--?”

“You--” Ives shakes his head, a sudden, irrational rage bubbling up from his belly. He tries to squash it as best as he can, but it spills over. “Don’t you ever – _ever -_ pull this shit with me again!” He’s ready to strangle Neil, or worse, to embrace him so he wisely takes a step back. “You heard me? Fuck!”

Neil just gazes over with glassy eyes. He lets out a contented sigh. “I’m so happy you’re alive too.” He pulls out the words as if they’re too heavy on his tongue but he smiles, a sunny and vacant thing that again renders Ives momentarily incapable of speech.

“ _No!_ ” he snarls. “No! I’m serious! Or else I’ll kick your ass--"

“Ives.” The Boss keeps his voice low, forcing calm. “I think you’ve made your point.” 

Ives grunts disapprovingly under his breath. Neil’s head shifts on the pillow, his unfocused stare wandering from Ives to the Boss, slow as molasses.

“Hey, boss!”

Neil’s wan, loopy smile widens a bit and – Ives is reasonably certain he is hallucinating – it seems that’s all it takes to do the Boss in. The man frowns, he sinks his teeth into his bottom lip as if trying to stop his whole face from crumbling and “ _Hey_ ,” he croaks, barely able to let the syllable out before biting down even harder. It’s comical, almost, the way Neil’s eyes sparkle like a cartoon in response.

“Looking good!” Neil declares. The Boss makes a startled sound, halfway between a sob and a laugh. “You come – you come here often?”

Ives pinches the bridge of his nose. “Oh, _great_.”

“I—” The Boss hesitates. He huffs another little chuckle. “No, not really.”

“Oh.”

“I’m only here because you’re here.”

“Aww!”

The Boss smiles. “You had us all pretty concerned.”

“You’re so beautiful,” Neil exhales, making a dysmetric but determined attempt at patting the Boss’ cheek. “Right, Ives? He’s so beautiful.”

“Huh,” Ives says from where he was trying to become one with the wall, “I guess?” because really, at this point, _whatever_ – and earns himself a brief _what the fuck_ look from the other man for his troubles. He shrugs irritably and the Boss rolls his eyes.

“--beard’s so soft--" Neil continues dreamily. The Boss, the picture of stoic patience, slowly gathers Neil’s hand in his and puts it back on the bed, careful to not tangle the IV tubing.

“Get some more rest, okay?” he says, just as Neil’s eyelids slide the rest of the way closed.

“-- _kay_ ,” Neil sighs, melting further into the pillow. “Stay,” he mumbles when the Boss leans back. “Don’t leave.”

Something turbulent and brittle is in the set of the Boss’ jaw. He rests a hand in the crook between Neil’s neck and shoulder and keeps a steady, anchoring pressure there. A few moments of quiet pass before he speaks again.

“I’m here,” he says, even though Neil is too far under to hear.

**Author's Note:**

> Here I am with something I hope will make sense in the end - after clogging the ask-box of the brilliant cupiscent on tumblr last month with my impromtu snippets of how I picture the relationship between Neil and Ives! What can I say in my defense except you know... gotta love them!


End file.
